


nothing short of a miracle

by adastra (sebasent)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barista Spock, Bonding, Fluff and Angst, Halloween, Implied Politics, Implied Sexual Content, Jim gets drunk a lot, M/M, Making Up, Male-Female Friendship, POV Alternating, Plot Devices, Spock grew up on Earth, Spock is more like Sybok than Sarek in this, Time Skips, Vulcan, Vulcan Biology, mechanic jim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-06 18:42:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11042040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebasent/pseuds/adastra
Summary: Jim, after making a particularly shitty life decision, decides to at least make some green-ish looking guy’s night a little less shit by scaring away his would-be harassers. Afterwards, they meet at a coffee shop, he learns the guy’s name isSpockof all things, and the rest may have as well been destiny.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> written for the T'hy'la big bang 2017!  
> BEAUTIFUL Art by @kanameyu is over here: [xxxx](http://yunoenikki.tumblr.com/post/162188448776/for-brachistochrone-s-fic-for-thyla-bang-2017)  
> and the tumblr masterpost is right here: [xxxx](http://brachistochrone-s.tumblr.com/post/162292979634/nothing-short-of-a-miracle-adastra-sebasent)  
> a thousand million thanks to my betas,Carún & Thelma, for literally correcting no more than 4000 spelling mistakes :///  
> one last thing before reading: i do not live in the USA. as much research as i tried to make, the imperial system will always be a mystery to me and there are probably some things that will look weird to anyone who actually lives in San Francisco lol/  
> anyway, please enjoy this little piece of our hearts !! <3

Spock is five when his parents tell him about Vulcan.

He has been, of course, raised by his father at home and rarely made to socialise with other humans, let alone children his age; this means he doesn't realise he’s different until a week before beginning his public school education, sitting on the living room of their colourful townhouse in the outskirts of San Francisco. His father tells it like this: sixteen light-years away from Earth, there is a dual star system that holds a red, desert planet the locals call Vulcan; It had been peaceful for very many years, until there was a serious political conflict- like the ones on television sometimes- and it got to such an extent that his Father, along with a number of other people, were forced to flee the planet and everything they’d ever known. The pods they had taken malfunctioned and his Father lost all communication in the process, landing, stranded, on Earth. He had decided to build a new life here, beside Spock’s mother, who found him in the brink of death and nursed him back to health and taught him english.

This means that Spock is peculiar not only because of his green blood and pointy ears, but also because his brain is built different with purpose deviating from the other kids’, and his ancestral history dates towards beings never before seen-or described- on Earth. Spock was born as a miracle in on himself, and he is told that he is the only one of his kind, and that even though he belongs on Earth he also belongs in Vulcan.

Birth certificates show a person’s nationality, and Spock’s doesn’t mark a planet because it is unfathomable here, to yet believe sentient life lurks out there. But he knows, now, as he look out his window that night, that somewhere far away there is a red planet called Vulcan, made of sand and logic and sehlats, where there is a political conflict so great, people were exiled forever; where the temperature is warm enough Spock would not feel like he’s freezing all the time; where the gravity is so great, he would not have to worry about his strength. He knows that, somewhere, there is a planet he will never have the opportunity to call home.

He has been taught it is not logical to grieve for what one has never had, but Spock is five years old and not yet a man, and he is cold under his electric blanket and the fire in the chimney, so he allows himself a sniffle, and a tear, and nothing more.

It is not the last he hears about Vulcan, but it is the last he lets his emotions rule over his logic, hardened by the necessity to be better so that one day, maybe, he can dream of meeting his Father’s family- his people- and making them proud.

xx

Jim has been on the road for over a week when he decides he doesn't want to keep on running. He can smell the ocean and the maps tell him he's already in California, so the only thing left to do is find a place where he can settle and be a nobody for a while- maybe the rest of his life- and get used to it.

He sees a blur of mountains and plants and flat plains go by his periphery, but he never lets his eyes stray off the path before him, and for the first time, he has a taste of what it may mean to not be dictated by the lives of those who’d surrounded him: he feels as if he could have the world raw. There’s something akin to three thousand dollars in his wallet- his life savings, when not spent on building the very motorcycle he’s riding into the sunset -and a wholesome feeling that translates into _somewhere_ in his heart, and Jim then realises he finally has the semblance of somewhere to go.

The cool night air lashes at Jim’s hands and neck, and it makes the exposed skin sting with something that may as well be freedom _._

He doesn't even care about all he’s left behind, even if the pictures dance behind his eyelids every time he has to stop for sleep, or gas, or food: his mother’s ageing, disappointed face, his stepfather’s sneer and snide comments, his brother’s footprints and the paper note bleeding out ink onto the back of his jeans. He has nothing but these memories and the clothes on his back to his name, and he feels- not happy, but as if he could just begin to work for it.

Looking back, Jim realises that he should probably do something about his impulsiveness.

He huffs at the errant thought of _thinking things through_ , lets it go in the next breath, and keeps driving. He has a full tank, a beating heart, and nowhere to go; he guesses he’ll just go on and on and on until the world ends, till he falls out the edge of everything he has ever known and lands in wonderland, or maybe the void. He has always hoped to make friends with it- especially on nights like these, when his muscles ache for a fight and his feet feel like they don’t quite touch the ground.

xx

The music is low, with a bass that resonates within Jim’s system and the crooning voice of a woman who sings wistfully from far away; his jacket is warm and crusty and he hasn’t showered since some motel in nevada, and yet Jim still feels as if he could have conquered the world. And that, of all things, should have been the first indicator that he is completely, thoroughly _drunk_.

His eyes wander over hardwood counters and floors and people, centres himself in the smell of piss and booze, and finally gathers up his bearings into smirking into his beer bottle and heaving himself up from the stool he’s been sitting on for what feels like hours, intent on making his way towards the dark, beautiful lady he’d seen in a mostly straight line. He has all the compliments he knows stacked and ready to fire when he sees them: a ball of assholes, all crowded around an uncomfortable-looking fellow clutching a glass of sparkling water.

He looks a little green around the edges, Jim thinks, and it must all be thanks to the awkwardness of this idiot’s rambling. Jim doesn’t know who he feels worse for: the dude with the beanie and pretty awesome eyebrows, or the guy who’s about to have his face punched in.

“Hey, asshole,” Jim calls, willing his feet to slow down and his fists to unroll before he carries on forward, his tongue rolling with the fire he knows his words will ignite. “Sorry to break your heart, man, but he’s really not into it,” he says with a grimace, almost sympathetic, almost as if he wasn’t itching for a fight since he left Iowa.

The asshole- a greasy-looking guy, with a startling beard and something that could be a handsome face if he didn’t look three steps from falling over with alcohol poisoning- turns his head so fast towards Jim, Jim genuinely worries for the health of his cervical bones.

He stares for some time, as if trying to analyse Jim’s potential as a threat. The green guy is still sitting there, perfectly still, but now his eyes have unglued themselves from the wall covered in alcohol bottles and moved onto Jim. “Fuck off, man,” Asshole says, finally, slurred and clumsy, all up in Jim’s face.

“And if I don’t?” Jim asks.

The fight is short and underwhelming: the asshole lunges at him on heavy feet and gets in a punch there, a headbutt here, and Jim can already feel his knuckles bruise when he gets a few hits of his own onto the guy’s massive torso; all in all, it could have been thirty seconds before the bartender’s calling the police, and the asshole’s friends are pulling him away, and Jim’s nose is bleeding into his mouth like nobody’s business.

“Excuse me.”

Jim turns from where he’s making haste, trying to slow down the flow of blood from his nose with a shirt that has truly seen better days. He’s truly expecting someone- maybe one of the asshole’s friends- to come and try to finish what he started, but instead there’s the greenish guy he started this entire mess over, and Jim doesn’t know id to be surprised or even more worried. It doesn’t help that his face is completely void of emotion, eyes dark and steady on the _drip drip drip_ of jim’s shirt and fingers.

“Um. can I help you?” jim asks, finally, because even if the fight was far from satisfying this guy gives off the impression that he packs a mean punch. He’s not really into possibly getting all of his ribs broken tonight, especially when he’s probably going back on the road early tomorrow, thanks.

“Hello. I am Spock. I would like to thank you for… distracting that man,” Spock (apparently) says, nodding at Jim with all the calm in the world, as if Jim’s not about to be arrested if he doesn't get out of here quick.

“Uh, yeah, man, no problem. Look, I gotta run but I’ll see you around, yeah?” Jim says, distracted, once he realises Spock isn’t here to beat him up or something. Jim glances back at him for a second with a smile, all bloody teeth and pretty eyes, and has every intention of turning and running when Spock says, “Of course. If you would allow me, I could bring you to the nearest hospital for your… nosebleed.”

Jim raises an eyebrow as they exit the bar in the same hurried footsteps they have kept since Jim peeled away from the scene. “Really? Thanks, dude,” he answers- he can’t ride his bike like this, anyway, he’s learnt from experience, and as much as he may hate hospitals it really does sound like a good idea to get his possibly-broken nose checked out.

“It is no trouble.” and off they are, apparently, into Spock’s car and five kilometres of awkward silence and Jim staring at Spock and trying to think of any conversation starters for when you start a fight over someone and then that someone takes you to the hospital.

Unfortunately, they arrive at the ER before Jim can come up with something worthwhile.

“So.. thanks, I guess,” Jim says, fumbling with the door handle while also trying to be polite for the first time in his life and offer a handshake. “I’m Jim. Jim Kirk.”

“It is my pleasure, Jim Kirk,” Spock answers, and stares at Jim’s hand until he lowers it slowly. He looks down at it and- right. Blood.

“Well, uh, see ya, i guess,” Jim finally manages to open the door and is out in a record time, embarrassed at his clumsy show of self and Spock nods, and then as soon as the door is closed again fucks off into the night like some kind of cape-less, covered hero, leaving Jim in the ER with all the too-bright lights and covered in blood.

“Weird,” he says to himself, and then shrugs it off as just one of the many strange things he’s seen since he decided to get on the road; he turns around and walks into the waiting room, scraping dried blood off the beds of his nails after he’s filled out all of the forms and paperwork he was asked to. He’s just considering the pros and cons of leaving the hospital altogether when he hears a voice he never really thought he’d hear again, but unlike so many others, is not necessarily _mad_ he has.

“James Tiberius Kirk,” Doctor L. H. McCoy says, and Jim forgets all of his troubles at the complete excitement at finding such a friendly face after the night- the week- the _life-_ he’s had.

“Bones!” Jim answers, his voice cracking at the end of the word from an exhausted kind of relief, a wide smile almost breaking his face. “I’d forgotten you’d transferred to San Fran, man, how’ve you been?”

“Better than you have, apparently,” Bones says, looking down at him with the kind of judgement Jim knows and loves so well. “The hell happened to you, kid?”

Jim snorts, and it’s actually kind of really painful. “Well, y’know, life, I guess,” he says sheepishly, his stuffy nose really not making him any favours.

Bones _chuckles_ at that, because he’s a terrible doctor and an even more terrible friend, and then lays a hand on Jim’s shoulder and claps him once. “Well, you can tell me all about it while we get your mug fixed,” he says, and it makes Jim smile even more, as if everything will most likely be fine now that Bones is here.

xx

A bell tinkles with the opening of the door, and it is friday, sometime in August, a week after Jim got his nose broken and met Bones again. The wind is humid and heavy with the early morning fog of every day San Francisco, as it is wont to be, and it drafts into the shop softly, ruffling the hems of Jim’s trousers and jacket as it passes through. He’s here out of complete chance; he finally coughed up the guts to fuck off from a career that had been written out for him since the beginning, starting with his father’s death in some heroic manner or another and ending on the screech of his motorcycle tires as he pulled away from camp, without any intention of going back, and now he has a job in a mechanic’s shop somewhere downtown and sleeps in Bones’ spare room, without any intention of looking back.

He takes a deep breath, and looks up from his musings and the floor, where his eyes had inadvertently wandered towards in the process of street-door-inside. The coffeeshop is a pretty little establishment, with a pretty old-fashioned facade and a bright interior, in a way that somehow reminds Jim of his grandparent’s old house. There’s a few people milling about, businessmen and early birds and tired college students, all enjoying pastries and coffee from little disposable cups and plates.

Jim takes his place behind the only other person in line, and when it’s his turn he has a ludicrous order ready at the tip of his nose when he’s met with a pair of familiarly dark, piercing eyes.

“Oh, hey, I know you!” he says, and the man behind the counter- _Spock-_ tilts his head to the side in a way that almost makes him resemble a cat.

“Yes, indeed. Hello again, Jim,” he says, his voice as neutral and cool as it was the night they met. “How may I help you?”

“This is crazy!” Jim says, but still places his order for sugary coffee because there’s already another two people behind him and he’s not a _complete_ piece of shit; when spock finally hands him his coffee, Jim bids him farewell with a wink and a _I will definitely be back, man,_ as farewell.

He swears he sees the beginnings of Spock blushing.

xx

“So, Spock,” Jim asks, some other day. “Any assholes come and bother you lately?”

Spock looks up at him over the rim of an empty cup, where he’s writing Jim’s name and order with calligraphy so perfect it almost looks printed. He raises a silent, slightly sloped eyebrow, one that never ceases making Jim feel like he’s done something particularly strange. “Pardon?”

Jim laughs a little, still not used to Spock’s seeming inability to understand humour or- more likely, more awesome- his way of _pretending_ he doesn’t. “Yeah, dude. Y’know, like the other night? When we met?”

Spock’s other eyebrow goes up, and he puts down the cup on the counter with a hollow sound and a completely unimpressed look on his face. “Right,” he says, “Of course. There have not been any other incidents like the ones from the night before, Jim. Thank you for your concern.”

Jim stares at Spock for one long, hard second, admiring his handsome face  but also trying to figure out if that was a joke or just Spock’s usual dry, logical self. Before he can come to a stable conclusion, however, someone clears their throat behind him, and Jim hurries to pay with a charming little smirk over his shoulder. “You’re so strange, you know that?” he says with a chuckle, moving away from the register so can wait for his coffee and leave some space for the person who’d been waiting behind him. “It’s not- bad, y’know, but still. Strange.”

Spock’s eyebrows remain at the top of his forehead as Jim was speaking, the only indication he was paying any kind of attention to him while serving the other costumer. “I do not know how to interpret your comment, I am afraid.”

Jim snorts, and smiles in thanks to the pretty girl that hands over his coffee when it’s done. “It’s a compliment, man,” he says with a wink. Spock only blinks at him, the skin under his eyes darkening a little, but it could have just been the light. “Anyway, I gotta run. See ya tomorrow, Spock!”

And he leaves. His heart pounds against his ribcage for no apparent reason, and he’s smiling so foolishly even Scotty, his boss at the shop, who doesn’t ever notice anything but his cars and weird machines comments on it, and he doesn’t even care to think of the _why_.

xx

His and Spock’s friendship, after the first few visits Jim makes to the coffeeshop and spock stops replying to his efforts in cold monosyllables, slowly comes to be a part of the things that Jim feels help him settle into his new life. He doesn’t talk about his past; Spock doesn’t seem to be interested in prying, and if he is, he’s doing a damn great job of hiding it, and Jim doesn’t ask about all of the casual strangeness that always seems to surround Spock. It’s something like a match made in heaven, or so Bones says, after three days in a row Jim comes home saying _Spock this, Spock that._

Going into the coffee shop and seeing spock is really something Jim doesn’t quite realise is good not only for him, but Spock as well. Since he made it a point and it became routine, Jim has been coming into the shop sometimes at the time they open, others when they close, sometimes at lunch but he always makes it, with his pretty eyes and the most ludicrous and sugary drinks he can make up just to see Spock- and Uhura, Spock’s friend and coworker who absolutely _refuses_ to tell him her first name- be completely disgusted. on the way and He comes to enjoy flirting with Spock in short and pretty sentences, some he means, some he _definitely_ means, and begins to forego getting smash drunk in favour of waking up as bright and early as possible to come and greet Spock in his outrageous hair and clothes and that pretty new hickey on the back of his neck, or make it into work early enough that he can take his lunch break inside the coffeeshop along with Spock’s. It’s really fucking cheesy and really everything Jim wasn’t aware he needed, and he really wouldn’t ever want to give it up.

Unfortunately, a month-old friendship can’t make really old habits die hard, and Jim learns this the hard way after one long night of partying and waking up in someone else’s apartment halfway across town. He plays it cool and leaves before his night’s pick wakes up, of course, and walks all the way to the coffee shop- which is closer, or so Google Maps says, because it feels like a thousand miles to Jim’s feet- and slams the door open on all whatever-A.M. customers.

Spock is manning the counter as he always is on Saturdays, and he seems startled by Jim’s sudden, dramatic entrance. He’s already picking out Jim’s favourite syrups when Jim slams the last five-dollar bill he has onto the counter and says, “Tall. black. _Strong_.”

And it leaves Spock stunned. Jim’s eyes are hard and exhausted, and he says it with such a commanding voice Spock can feel the tips of his ears getting warmer under his hair and beanie, his hands rushing to meet Jim’s captaining without his brain really noticing, or caring, or even minding them. By the time he comes back from his sudden, momentary brain-crash he has made a cup of coffee so strong, he can actually smell it from all the way behind the counter even after Jim has taken it and shoved it under his own nose; Spock is still completely silent, like the rest of the shop- the ten other patrons  who seem to be holding their breaths and waiting to see exactly _what_ Jim is going to do next.

Jim holds the cup and blows on it for a few seconds before taking a deep breath, tipping it over, and downing most of it in one long, long gulp, which leaves Spock staring at his adam’s apple in wonder and amazement and considering what the stretch of his neck would taste like- of course, if he could do it, it would be slow but maybe also a little bitey, with teeth and tongue and holy _shit_ Spock, what? _What_ ? That was so, _so_ inappropriate. Gosh, he is such a terrible Vulcan.

He’s in so much trouble. Oh, yes he is.

But Jim- lord, he’s so worth it. Everyone stares at him as he closes his eyes and seemingly wills the hot rush away from his face, and finally manages to croak out, “That was hot. Just what I needed. Thanks, man,” and walks out of the shop without looking back, leaving a sea of admirers in shell-shocked silence.

Spock suddenly realises he has been very foolish about the nature of his feelings towards Jim for a while.

“Hey, Spock,” Nyota says, and if Spock wasn’t Vulcan he would have jumped, with how startled he was. She looks him up and down oddly, anyway, in that way of hers that means she’s figuring him out inside out with a single glance. She raises an eyebrow and looks away, towards the door closing behind Jim, and all of the customers who have-mostly- recovered from the hurricane that is Jim Kirk.  “Oh, was that Jim?” she asks, and when Spock nods, she smirks as if that could answer every single question about Spock in that moment.

And shit, it probably was.

Spock is Doomed. With the uppercase D and everything.

xx

Some wednesday in the middle of September Jim is leaning on the counter, smearing oil from his rolled shirtsleeves onto the wood and talking, as has become their norm. Nothing in particular about the situation is unusual, and Spock tries to pretend he isn’t listening as intently as he is to Jim ramble on about the grandma that came in earlier in the day and tried to hit on him, undeterred by Nyota’s knowing little glances his way.

“Spock?” Jim says, and Spock realises, with some trepidation, that he was more concentrated on pretending to not be listening than actually listening.

“Yes?” He asks, almost sheepishly, and finally turns around with today’s Outrageous Latte, a combination of sweet mint and chocolate and vanilla. He hands it over to Jim, who’s looking at him with something like consideration, and is about to pull his hand away when Jim suddenly grabs him by the wrist, just above his pulse point, and Spock stops breathing. He hears Nyota choking behind him but it doesn’t quite seem like a priority, so he instead focuses on the warmth of Jim on body and mind and the rough slip of paper being folded into his nimble fingers, a sliver of black making contrast against crisp white.

“We’re friends, no?” Suddenly comes to mind at seeing Jim’s expectant grin, terribly bright and sunny in otherwise foggy, normal San Francisco. “It’s about time we have each other’s phone number.” Spock does not give an answer for far too long, it seems, because Jim’s smile falls a stitch, and Spock suddenly feels like the biggest fucking asshole for turning off the sun when it was just coming up, and it’s such a definingly _human_ emotion, Spock startles himself. “Anyway, ah, call me, yes? Anytime!” Jim stutters, and his bashfulness is so entirely adorable and out of character that Spock almost, almost grins back.

His lip twitches against his will, anyway, and it seems to be enough for Jim because he nods and then walks away with a spring on his step and the sun back on his face, like it never really left, like it suddenly found a new source of heavy elements and was gifted with a few more centuries to its eternity. Spock, strangely, feels like that smile stays with him for the rest of the day, and in turn the day passes by in a daze.

He goes and visits his parents that evening, and brings the pastries he’d painstakingly made earlier, and his mother asks him about school and work and the reason why he’s wearing a _dopey smile_ of all things, and his father looks at him disapprovingly and, strangely, knowingly.

xx

Jim’s taking his lunch with Spock as they sometimes do- on Wednesdays and Fridays, because they’re the days Spock has the early shift and Jim is working- and they’re talking about the littlest things and discussing science and politics and books and movies, like every other day they have done this. Jim watches the light hit Spock’s eyes from where he sits beside the window on a rare sunny day, and he’s explaining some complicated concept from his master’s thesis with that cute little frown of his that appears only when he’s intensely invested in something- a brachistochrone, Jim remembers like a flash, and then it’s gone, buried under the immense infatuation he feels towards this man.

Jim is so surprised by that sliver of sentiment he falters in his eating, making Spock look at him oddly, concerned, and it’s almost too much, so he stammers out apologies and excuses and _i just remembered_ s and _so sorry_ s and _see you later_ s and gets up, almost knocks his chair back in his haste and his tires screech when he pulls out of the curb with way too much force, leaving a stunned Spock behind.

He doesn’t stop silently freaking out until he’s buried under mountains of couch cushions and Bones finds him, a mess of blushing cheeks and heart eyes, and tells him, “You’re like a schoolgirl with a crush, man.”

And Jim considers being offended, because _seriously Bones, fuck off_ , but then he thinks back to earlier that day and- “Fuck me, man, I think I am,” and it definitely doesn’t get better from there, because from then on Jim is hyper-aware of Spock, and the way Jim feels about Spock, and his wonderful lips pressed against cups and his wonderful hands gripping bottles and knobs with finesse, and his beautiful eyes and ridiculous haircut and obsession with hats and beanies and shit, Jim’s got it bad, hasn’t he? and it’s all a terrible vicious cycle that will probably only end in tragedy.

The worst thing is, Uhura’s starting to catch up, and even Keenser from the mechanic shop, and Jim suddenly feels like a zoo animal, caged against their pining gazes, and he kind of can’t breathe until Bones takes at look at him and laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and doesn’t stop laughing until he meets Spock by chance and then he fucking _cackles_.

And Spock just stares, as he does, and then he asks, “Jim, is your _friend_ alright?” like it means something, and Bones somehow manages to find the time between chortle and laugh to say, “You’re so fuckin’ done for, Jim,” and then carry on his merry way, not even drinking the coffee Jim bought for him, only making fun of his misery for the rest of forever.

Jim _hates_ this guy.

xx

“Jim invited me to a party,” Spock comments near the end of October, while he and Nyota are helping Nyota’s mother close shop late on a Sunday.

Nyota looks away from the floors she’d been cleaning, looks back at her mother managing the books, then back at Spock. “Really? No wonder,” she says, joking but not really. “Is it the one that’s happening next weekend? In that house near the beach?”

Spock blinks at her and decides to ignore her comment for the sake of the both of them, and then he says, “I believe so. Jim said there would be a lot of _university folk.”_

Nyota smiles secretively, hiding it expertly behind the handle of her broom, and says, “Well, are you going? It would be great if you socialised more, Spock, honestly, and I’d been considering going, anyway.”

Spock feels like grimacing, but instead he bows his head and says, “Perhaps,” to pretend he’s considering it even if he’ never been able to say no to Nyota, not really.

“Perfect!” She says, and then swoops over and winks at him, and Spock is exasperated but still grateful to have a friend like her.

xx

There is a reason why Spock dislikes any kind of large social event: drunk people.

It’s not only because ethanol does nothing for him, or that the fact that he’d rather not get into skin-to-skin situations with other people means he’s usually secluded to a small corner of the room; it’s also because trying to hold a conversation with any kind of drunk person is usually terribly, terribly exhausting. When he arrives with Nyota at his side he already _knows_ how the night is going to go for him, so he bids her farewell when she turns around with pretty brown eyes and says, “I’ll be over there, honey, have fun!” and resigns to look for the most empty corner in the ridiculously big house the party is being hosted in. at least it’s halloween-themed, so there’s a lot of candy and most importantly _chocolate,_ so soon enough you’ve got Spock planted near a window eating a small child’s weight in chocolate and loving it.

And Jim is there, too, Spock found just as he’d arrived, all _have a good time, yes?,_ and _it’s_ the _night the get smashed!_ . But the thing is, Spock had never liked the effect chocolate- or alcohol, he guesses- and he feels even more out of place in his weird harry potter fusion outfit, with a ravenclaw scarf and his normal fucking ears and green-flushed cheeks, even if it’s like twelve degrees outside and he’s _freezing_. At least the chocolate helps for something.

He looks around the room again, looking for a face that’s at least vaguely familiar, and he thinks he’s finally found it when he sees the back of Jim’s head in that ridiculous police cap he’s wearing. He’s considering going up to him and trying to strike up some kind of conversation when he sees- well, the second part of the scene, he supposes, because there’s some girl in a bunny outfit hanging off Jim’s neck and _kissing_ him.

Spock is still in control of himself, of course, because he is Vulcan and dignified, so when he starts walking it’s not towards Jim and the girl but the door, and then the beach, and then the night, with no real goal and no real desire to get anywhere but somewhere his heart doesn’t ache quite as terribly as it does. There’s sand in his shoes and he’s probably going to get hypothermia but he doesn’t really care- he has to get away but can’t go home until Nyota wants to, or she leaves with someone else.

Jim, preoccupied as he is, doesn’t notice that Spock’s pretty much stormed out the party until someone says, “Hey, Jim, where’s the guy you invited?” and Jim, even through the haze of beer and vodka, feels a pang of worry in his chest; he’s a little too drunk for this, he notices when e tries to walk down the stairs, but the breeze will do him fine and the nod Uhura directs towards him is just fuel on his determination.

Spock’s walking along the seaside, Jim finds, after following a pair of footsteps he wasn’t really sure were even Spock’s. Jim falls into step beside him, winded, and follows Spock silently until he says, “is there something you need, Jim?”

There isn’t. He knows Spock is fine so his job here is done, he is free to go back to the party and enjoy it before he gets too old to be able to attend one of these events without just looking sad, but this is _Spock_ and Jim is completely, thoroughly head over heels. So he chuckles, and says, “Your ear props look really real, you know?”

Spock raises an eyebrow, as he often does in response to Jim’s silliness, but it doesn’t deter Jim from carrying on with the threat of the conversation, as he often does in response to Spock’s general awkwardness. “What even are you supposed to be, anyway? Some kind of… Harry Potter Original Character?”

"I am… not entirely sure.”And if it had been anyone else but Spock, he would’ve laughed a little, perhaps looked away bashfully, a hand to the back of his neck as a show of nervousness and another one on Jim’s arm to keep steady. But he _is_ Spock, so he only says it, voice flat and slightly slurred and way too logical-sounding for almost-two-am, the only sign of his humanness being a twitch of the fingers here, a too-slow blink there.

“You? Not sure of something? Call the fucking cops, dude, woah.” Jim says, a stupid smile playing at his lips, his body naturally leaning towards Spock without Jim noticing-or caring- much.

Spock is one step ahead of him, still, and he says, “You are here, are you not?” in such a flat tone, it takes a moment for Jim to _get_ it.

“did you just… make a joke? Like, an actual joke?” Jim asks, amazed, and glances over at Spock with wide, wide eyes. Spock meets his gaze for a fraction of a second, and then he’s breathing something like a huff and falls quiet with an air kind of like triumph.

They walk for a while longer, stumbling and sometimes giggling out of the blue, because they’re not really talking more than they are breathing together and generally enjoying each other’s company. That is, until Jim tries to give one last valiant attempt at walking and the sand gets in the way, so he just sits where he fell and Spock joins him, all companionable and “It would not be logical to halt our conversation now, Jim.”

And so they sit together on the sand, in their little impromptu throne on top of the fucking world, watching the lights and the fog and the stars, and everything is just so beautiful and blissful and slightly fuzzy around the edges it’s logical Jim would find a way to fuck it up.

Jim is mumbling about rocket engines and spock is humming and silently butting into his garbled sentences with slightly slurred and half-baked proposals, and spock is so warm beside him, and stiff, and solid, and he is everything-the only thing, the only _someone-_ that Jim has ever _really_ wanted. So he leans on Spock’s shoulder, sleepy and not quite as drunk as he was when he left the party or he’s pretending to be, with words still stumbling out of his lips, until they stop and he manages to sit there with Spock for a moment of blissful peace, undisturbed with only the ocean to carry the conversation for them.

He turns slowly after some time, eyes searching and locked onto Spock’s jaw, and he leans away for a moment to regard him in his full glory: a pretty little blush, blue under the moon and starlight, black eyes settled on Jim like a lifeline. And Jim searches, and searches, and seems to find what’s looking for because after a beat he rests a featherlight hand on Spock’s cheek and leans in with a furrowed brow and whispering breath and then, oh so lovingly, oh so slowly, kisses him. It’s just a small press of lips between them, noses brushing, awkward thanks to a slightly odd angle, necks caning, and Jim holds his breath and crosses his eyes so he can keep looking into the universe that Spock’s hold. They’re not really black, he notes; from up close he can see little flickers of grey and brown, and they fit so well within spock’s personality that Jim smiles a tiny bit against spock’s lips and finally closes his eyes, presses himself up to Spock a little more insistently, his mind a mess of _oh my god_ and _beautiful_ and _too fucking drunk for this, probably_.

As far as first kisses go this is by much the sweetest one, the kind that feel like the start towards something new and exciting, that you wouldn’t mind having over and over again as you fall in love with the same pair of lips a little more every day; so the worst part is-the _cruelest_ part is- Spock kisses back, for one glorious second, lies a heavy hand against Jim’s bare thigh and opens his mouth a little bit for Jim before he stops and stiffens and pulls away, so fast that Jim can’t really process the change until Spock is already standing up with a watery sort of shimmer to him, and says, “I must go.”

And so he does. Even if Jim’s brain had been at its full capacity, his seemingly superhuman speed walk would’ve had him beyond shouting distance before Jim could finish the _a_ in _Wait!._

So he sits there, startled and cold and suddenly painfully sober, with one hand resting on the sand underneath that’s still warm from _Spock_ , his body angled and ready to crumble and melt into the it forever. He can still taste Spock on his lips, feel the phantom tickle of hair against his nose and ears, and he has the sudden urge to scream, and rage, and curse the entire _fucking_ cosmos.

He doesn’t give into the pressure behind his eyelids, nor the pressure of his brain or stuffy mouth, so instead he stands up after he’s sure he won’t keel over from the pressure in his lungs and heart and dusts off the back of his stupid fucking costume and tries to walk on the opposite direction of Spock, feeling miserable and like something dislodged itself from his chest, tugged away when Spock stood up and  left him all alone, as if the seams of his ragdoll body were pulled slack by a vicious tug, getting greater and greater with every step Spock took away from him, unexplained and dragging Jim’s heart with his heels.

 


	2. ii.

Jim feels… he feels like actual shit.

There really is no way around it. He feels like his heart got run over and then eaten, maybe, the way he hasn’t felt since he was younger and his brother left him, his mother saw someone else in him, his entire life was being lead by the image of a long dead man; he wants to go to Spock and apologise for  _ everything,  _ for letting himself be led on and dream and fantasise, for dragging Spock into his messy web of feelings, for having even come to California in the first place because he was too much of a coward to confront his future. He’s  _ going  _ to apologise to Spock, because he deserves that much, and he’s going to do it- not today.

Mondays are his free days. Jim knows because he said that that way, he could get a head start for his coursework for the week and be all figured out and ready when deadlines come upon him. 

So, tomorrow it is. Trouble is, when tomorrow rolls around and with it comes Jim with a mouth full of remorse, Spock is nowhere to be seen, and neither is he on the day after that, or the day after; and Jim is starting to miss his friend, at least, and the ridiculous lattes, so he decides to use up one of his scarce vacation days to stake out the coffee shop on the day that Spock is the most likely to be there, either because he has to be or because Uhura is working. 

When Jim finally sees Spock again, three days after the Incident and two hours after his supposed  _ stalking  _ began, it is not actually inside the shop, but rather across the street and about to disappear into a corner.

“Spock!” Jim yells at him, crossing the road without any safety measure whatsoever, “Hey, Spock!”

Spock doesn’t answer but Jim didn’t really expect him to, even when he’s already catched up, even when the words he wants to say cannot seem to want to settle into coherent phrases. 

“Jim,” Spock finally says, after a complete eon, without even turning his head to look at him; he’s inched farther away from Jim since they began walking- Jim began following him- and he pretends it doesn’t send a bitter, terrible pang into his chest.

“Spock,” Jim says, again, maybe as a prayer for anyone who could be watching to make thing okay again. “Look, man, about the other night-”

“-I do not think we can continue our acquaintanceship,” Spock cuts his fragmented speech short, with real pieces of glass down Jim’s throat.

“Wait, Spock,  _ what _ ?” Jim says, incredulous, because he had thought Spock would be the kind of angry that keeps his distance for just a little while, not the kind that cuts him off forever. 

“I do not have any… kind of romantic or sexual interest towards you, so I would prefer if you ceased to try and engage me in any form of conversation or physical activity,” Spck continues, still in that same monotone, as if he didn’t fucking care he’s ripping Jim apart with his  _ teeth. _

He feels so fucking numb he doesn't even register saying, “So what, you’re not gay? That’s fine, man, we can be friends-” 

“I do not want anything to do with you anymore, James.” 

Spock still hasn’t looked at Jim once since their conversation began, and it just feels like one more blow to Jim’s already shambled heart, and he doesn’t even know what to say. So he just breaks instead, And the light turns green for everyone who has to walk to walk, and Spock does with the same composure as he has always held; keeping a distance from the rest of the crowd, eventually disappearing around another corner, except this time Jim and his leaded feet cannot follow. He would have stood there staring at the ghost of Spock’s back for the rest of forever, or the time it may take for broken hearts to mend, if someone hadn’t knocked into him and Jim has the jump start to shake his head and walk away, towards his and Bone’s flat, away from the bloodstains he’s surely left on the pavement. And  the clouds are like mountains upon mountains, tall and towering and dark, menacing. Protective. He feels like he's drowning under the weight of all the water that seems to bulge and weep along the beat of his heart, Spock's words still ricocheting inside his skull and drilling holes into his heart.

He gets himself into the apartment in a haze, and he lies down on the couch and doesn’t really consider getting up for the next, say, ten thousand years. And his plan would’ve been successful, too, if Bones hadn’t come in and crashed his pity party with his harsh words and southern whiskey. 

"Life goes on," Bones tells him on that weird voice of his, strained, as if he’d just realised and resigned himself into the position of Official Love Counsellor. His hand hovers over the back of Jim's neck, unsure and angry, somehow, and Jim can feel the fingers twitch and strain against the invisible force that tells them to go grab something sharp and stab Jim with it. Jim’s half sure that he doesn’t do it out of pure spite and unwillingness to go through the messy process of having to go back to the hospital.

"But I don’t  _ want  _ to go on with life," Jim answers, because he’s fucking heartbroken and tired and righteously petty. Bones sighs, long-suffering, and it’s almost like if he was expecting it- and in a way he probably did, because fuck if Bones hasn't been anything but tough love and stability in instability. 

Gosh, Jim’s so fucking glad he found Bones. 

"Tough luck, kid," Bones answers, and then there’s a clank of glass against glass and Jim snorting uglily into the night, with his heart a little bit lower in his esophagus and most likely drowning in alcohol. 

xx

When Spock was a child, he was mocked for many things; the way he talked, the way he looked, the way he didn’t want to touch anyone skin-to-skin, but most of all, it was because the other children thought he didn’t have any emotions, and so any harassment would not affect him. But the truth was- the truth  _ is- _ that Spock is an emotional and flawed being, born to two worlds and so experiencing so many things in so many ways it is easier to see them from a more scientific point of view. He does have emotions, he is only good at controlling them, but right now, he holds no kind of semblance of that control.

In the same way that it had been way back when, Nyota is there for him, because when is she not and if not her, then who? But she’s less sympathetic about the situation and more about driving him into the dirt once she finds out the whole truth about what truly happened, a week later (a record for them, proof that Spock had been so very distant), when she notices that Jim’s stopped coming into the shop altogether. She’d originally passed it off as him being sick, or busy, but then Spock started doing the whole glance-at-the-door-every-time-it-opens cliché and she  _ realised _ . It was unnerving, for Jim’s presence in their lives to have been so ingrained she noticed something was wrong because he hadn’t come in in so many days, and she’s sure Spock would’ve said something or another thing if he didn’t already know the  _ why _ . So, as the good friend she is, she proceeded to guilt trip Spock into inviting her to his apartment and then tried to milk the information out of him over ice cream, and then rolling her eyes and calling him a fucking  _ idiot,  _ with more words and better grammar and a more articulate vocabulary. She tells him he’s just being an asshole to someone who’d been- and would be- nothing but good to him, and if he’s afraid to get  _ hurt  _ then he has a pretty crooked definition of the word because  _ Nyota’s  _ done worse to him, honestly- and then it dawns on her, that’s not it, is it?  _ You’re just concerned about the whole-  _ alien  _ thing _ .

And the thing is, it was always so  _ easy  _ to forget that Spock wasn’t really entirely human, that she felt like a complete dick after everything that happened; because ever since they were kids Nyota’s been protecting her best friend against idiots who try to make fun of him for the green tinge of his skin, or his annoying proficiency in everything, or his stupid fucking haircut, or even his complete inability to read a social situation no matter how hard he tries or how much experience he has, and there was a point where she would have followed him to the end of the world just so she could be there when he broke down (silently, in the way Vulcans apparently do, still functioning but only as a means to get by). And now, she realises, she became one of these idiots for a moment, there. 

She remembers the day she found out about spock’s  _ heritage  _ almost perfectly. 

They’d been dating for a little while, way back in highschool, when he thought he was straight and she still believed in those bullshit romances from the movies. It had all been almost picture perfect, with dates to museums and late-night projects in each other’s house, until the incident where she almost died one night. 

It was supposed to be a simple little project for their physics class, explaining the laws of motion, until suddenly there had been too much friction, and weights, and exploding glass- and she’d been expecting pain since the moment she saw things were not going according to plan but it never came, aside from a few pinpricks on her face and forearms. And when she’d opened her eyes she’d looked at Spock, who had been looking at his hands with a kind of detached wonder reflected on his face, he was  _ covered  _ in gashes and glass and  _ so much _ blood, except it couldn’t have been because it was  _ green  _ and not red like the one seeping from uhura’s wounds in little flowering droplets. 

She’d opened her mouth and tried to will her anxious mouth to blurt out something, anything, but then Ms. Grayson had barged into the room and taken a look at them and called for her husband with a quivering voice, then grabbed Nyota in a hurry and taken her into the kitchen so she could remove the glass from her clammy skin and set brightly coloured band-aids where there had been cuts before. Ms. Grayson had sent her home shortly after, with fragile smiles and cookies, and Nyota didn’t see Spock for three days after that.

He’d avoided her then, too, first turning her away when she went to visit him at home and then after he came back to school, all bandaged and exhausted. She’d cornered him and not let him go until he’d finally told the truth, about red planets and racism and how his father was not really from  _ here  _ and why he liked hats so much and couldn’t hold hands or touch her at all, and she’d laughed at first but then she’d remembered his green blood and his fucking ears and _ holy  _ shit _ , Spock. Holy shit. _

It had taken her a while to come to terms with it- she went the whole nine yards, curled up with Spock behind the bleachers, wondering about how the answer to the everlasting question of  _ are we alone in the universe  _ was sitting right in front of her. And then she’d kissed Spock, on the cheek, and said, “Well, you’re just a little cooler now, I guess.” and Spock had given her one of his rare smiles, all bashful and relieved, and held her hand for the first time, delicate and frail and describing the  _ calm  _ Spock knows she felt.

It wouldn’t be fair to make Spock- her beautiful Spock, with his gentle fingers and beautiful mind- throw away all of the normality he has worked so hard to achieve, ever since they were six years old, just for a man who still has the potential to remain a  _ could have been _ .

So she sighs and swallows her misdirected anger, takes ahold of Spock’s wrists in the way she’d done when they used to think they  _ loved  _ each other, and listens to him breathing for a while. She considers his fingers, the right hand that’s slightly bulkier and more calloused, the paleish green of the blood running underneath paper-thin skin, and asks, “Did he- find out? Somehow?” because she has to be sure that Spock is safe, that Jim Kirk is not about to destroy everything him and his family have been fighting for for god knows how long.

“He did not,” He tells her, and she breathes easy for a moment before- “He kissed me.” 

And she sucks in a sharp breath, and then looks him dead in the eye, and says, “That’s good, isn’t it? You like him.  _ Like  _ like him.”

“It is not a matter of whether I...  _ like  _ like him or not, I’m afraid,” Spock tells her with a flair of humour despite the situation, and she already knows this, but  _ gosh _ , she wishes she didn’t.

“Oh, Spock,” She says, in lieu of anything else, and purses her lips the way she does when she’s looking at a particularly hard set of words, or when she curses her lack of control over mind that impedes her from just pulling Spock closer and wrapping him in her arms, never letting go.

Spock nods at her, anyway, and his eyes do the thing where they smile without the aid of his mouth, and Nyota wonders how it is that she has such an wonderful being as a friend.

“You could tell him, you know,” she says, hours later, when her brain is a little numb from watching one too many episodes of  _ Say Yes To The Dress  _ and so her thought-to-words filter is a tad off kilter _.  _ “He doesn’t seem like the kind who would mind.  _ Plus,  _ you’d stop moping, and probably land a date, so- hey, win-win, right?”

Spock doesn’t sigh, because Vulcans do not sigh, but he does exhale a little bit more forcefully than strictly necessary, and it’s really the same thing. “Perhaps,” he says, and his fingers twitch slightly on his lap and he doesn’t look like he’s considering it.

But the thing is, he  _ is,  _ and he does, once Nyota’s gone and Spock can get onto his meditation mat. He considers calling his mother, because she’s human and she would know what to do about this complete  _ mess _ , but Spock is an adult and he thinks he ought to figure it out for himself, anyway; Jim’s human as well, but he’s  _ different,  _ so unlike any other person Spock’s bothered to befriend it would be little less than insulting to try and figure him out based on the models he has of other people- or let someone else figure it out for him.

Spock cannot yet see any logical way out of this, but he knows he’ll find it eventually. He hopes he does, at least. (Hope is illogical, and un-vulcan, but he’s half-human and desperate, so he’ll take whatever dreg or excuse he can allow himself).

So he thinks, and thinks, and thinks, and he comes to the conclusion that the only way to get Jim to probably forgive his idiocy is to actually go  _ talk  _ to him and  _ apologise _ . He doesn’t want to admit to anyone- especially the nagging, high-pitched voice cursing him out right on the edge of his hearing range that suspiciously sounds like Nyota- but a human approach is usually the best way to deal with humans, for reasons way too obvious for Spock to be comfortable admitting. 

And so, Spock makes to call Jim. He digs out the perfectly folded paper from the side table where he puts everything he doesn’t know what do with, from underneath a stress ball and a solved rubik's cube, and sits on his desk chair looking at the digits marked on the paper. He definitely doesn’t stall dialing, he tells himself, he’s just thinking about everything that has had to come down for this to happen, and then he realises it’s probably too late for it to be decent to call, so he postpones it until the next morning, as he’s getting ready for class.

But then it is too early. And the day is too  _ sunny _ , and it’s not much of an excuse, because surely Jim likes to go outside when the sun is out for once? It’s all simple logic, really. Spock’s just waiting for the moment he is entirely sure Jim is going to pick up, yes or yes.

And then the unthinkable happens: Nyota finds out when she sees him with the slip of paper on his hand, trying to weigh out the pros and cons of calling during his lunch break, and oh-so-innocently asks him,  _ what’s that, Spock, ooh, did you get lucky?  _ And then saw the scrawly  _ Jim T. Kirk  _ underneath. Spock already had a plan of action- no, really- completely foolproof, but then Nyota decides it’s all obsolete because she’s the actual worst friend in the  _ history  _ of bad friends and  _ she  _ is the one who calls Jim, and tells him to come over to the park near the coffee shop, where she then  proceeds to drag Spock and forces him to remain until Jim is  _ there _ , covered in soot and sweat and just really, really fucking gorgeous. 

“Jim,” is all he can think to say, because he is an idiot and Nyota is already walking away from them and their disaster of an encounter. “Hello.”

Jim stares at him, unimpressed.  _ Spock  _ is pretty unimpressed with himself as well, so he doesn’t really blame Jim for that look. “Yes, hello, Spock,” he says, and his voice snaps like poison at the very end, like the sole concept of Spock  _ being  _ was enough to choke him, like arsenic.

Spock hadn’t thought things through this far. Or rather, he  _ had _ , but then Nyota got involved and now he doesn’t know what to do but stand in an awkward, terribly uncomfortable silence for a second, then another, and  fight with all his mind to salvage some semblance of thought from the sudden meltdown happening inside his head. “I was meaning… I believe I owe you an apology,” He starts, and in the process reconsiders every single step he has ever taken that has led him into this situation. “Jim, the things that I said to you were uncalled for, and for that I am terribly sorry. I was- emotionally compromised.” 

It  _ pains  _ him to say that last bit, but he really does  try. He’s pretty proud of himself, really; he hasn’t struggled with words so much since he had to break up with Nyota, and even then she’d already known what he was trying to do and say. She’s just awesome like that.

Jim looks at him for a little longer, eyes squinting at him as if he’s trying really hard to understand whatever it was that had left Spock’s mouth, and then just as Spock is going to start talking again- rephrase himself, maybe, or dig himself deeper into this hole of misery he’s found himself inside of since the beginning of this conversation- 

“ _ Emotionally compromised _ ?” He finally says, after he realises that yes, Spock  _ is  _ being completely bona fide about this. "So  _ what _ ?" He continues, mouth twisted terribly and eyes still so narrowed he’s probably having trouble seeing, but is  way past the moment of caring much. "Do you expect me to just-  _ accept  _ your shitty apology and run into your arms like this is some kind of fucked up soap opera? Is that it? You breaky my fucking heart and you just- want me to  _ forgive you? _ "

Spock is so stunned he doesn't even seem to have any words. First time for everything, he muses, although this is not an unexpected reaction to Jim Kirk. "Yes," he means to say, but it comes out more like a question, much like Spock is currently feeling. Like one big, glowing question mark. Maybe he should’ve had more friends, talked to more people, maybe then he’d have some idea of what the fuck he’s doing.

He’s just really glad he hasn’t had to go see his Father lately. Sarek would be so disappointed in Spock,  _ he  _ may end up being the one having an emotional breakdown.

The complete  _ cheek  _ of this man, Jim thinks, and oh, it’s just wonderful, isn’t it? He’d tried, so  _ hard,  _ and now he’s just so fucking done he may as well just turn around and walk away, not care, just like Spock did at some point. So he snorts, and it’s almost like blood on the ground, all flaky and dry and salty. "Sure thing, buddy. And i’m the Queen of England. you can fuck off now, okay, man? See ya." and he turns around, with all intention to  _ go  _ because he was getting  _ past  _ this, goddammit.

“Jim, allow-” Spock says, desperate, more than he had been earlier that week or even before he even  _ met  _ Jim.

And Jim ignores him, with a silent shake of his head and a raised hand in farewell, still walking away from Spock and his illusions of grandeur. 

“Jim, I must insist-”

Jim turns around, like a whip, and even if he doesn’t keep walking his arms are spread wide, and his torso is tilted back, and Spock doesn’t know what it may mean but it feels aggressive, like the wind before a storm or the leap of a wolf’s legs, powerful and  _ deadly _ . “Look, Spock, I’m really not into getting my heart broken, yeah? so just- go ahead on your merry way and let's forget we ever even met, alright?” 

Spock stands there. He considers saying something else, pleading for Jim on his knees like he oh so incredibly wants to, but it surely won’t fix things, especially with how terribly _emotional_ they’re both being. So he doesn’t say anything. He only lets Jim laugh at him, humourless and numb, watches as he storms away and leaves Spock with one hand half-outstretched to do- what?

He doesn’t really want to dwell on it much so he decidedly doesn’t. Instead, he opts toward pulling his hand back, his emotions back into their bo in the back of his brain, and himself together to keep on walking calmly, past the shop and Nyota’s questions and the sun. He keeps walking until he gets to his apartment, where he then sits on the kitchen island, thinking and trying his damnedest not to cry- to keep himself under control- for the first time since he was six.

xx

In the same bar where everything started, Jim finds solace in the thought that maybe he will finally have the ending he needs, even if it is not the one he wanted. He celebrates what he believes to be the end of an era with a constant stream of booze, and in his mind, it makes sense for that weird thing he’d called  _ friendship  _ begins and ends with a fist to Jim’s mouth and a trip to the ER- except this time there are no green-looking cuties or grumpy doctors, just flushed drunk military assholes and a cold jail cell. He wonders there, for a moment, after he has cursed his luck at being arrested for a  _ bar fight,  _ if violence was really the answer, and maybe his problems could’ve been avoided if they- him and Spock- had maybe talked at length about the entire fiasco; but then just as the thought forms it vanishes, because his bail comes through and a tired-looking officer unlocks the cell and tells him, “Don’t be as stupid next time, kid,” and he can walk away from his problems and the shitty little bed they’d had. 

It was, surprisingly, Uhura who got his bail through, came all the way in to bail him out, and he’s got his best poison at the tip of his tongue and an offer to pay her back when she holds up a hand and says, “He’s an idiot.” and stuns Jim into listening to her. 

Jim lets her talk because he’s into women who call the men who hurt him idiots, as was the case with Number One and Gaila, way back in the day. He still finds her sort of attractive- Nyota Uhura is truly a force to be reckoned with, all fine features and sharp words and a deadly sort of calm to her that could make the best of them weep- but in the way one may recognise little sisters as attractive, as in,  _ I would definitely hand you a sword and let you fight any men that dared ask you on a date and deem them worthy.  _ She’s Spock’s best friend, obviously, and he feels a little weird about his train of thought up to here, but he goes along with it because nothing can catch him astounded anymore.

So he lets himself be taken to her car, fiddling with the cast he got for his troubles, and she makes painful small talk with him on the way home. Jim knows what she’s here for, anyway, and honestly if she’d shown up three hours ago he would’ve turned her away with nothing more than a laugh. It’s amazing, really, how as of recently his entire life has been the reason for epiphany in points marked by getting the shit beat out of him. She wants to talk about Spock, that much is clear, and so Jim waits her out patiently until she works up to  it, which turns out to be in front of the doors to his and Bones’ apartment complex.

“He just really doesn’t know what he’s doing, Jim,” She says. “The only other significant relationship he’s ever had- romantic or otherwise- was with  _ me _ , and i know him better than he knows himself, anyway. Just, give him a chance, please?”

And Jim, again, refuses to answer, mostly because he already knows he’s going to. He knows he probably overreacted a little, and he was an asshole for not letting Spock at least  _ explain  _ himself, and anyway he’s fucking smitten with the guy and love does this thing where it makes you look past the terrible red fog of lunatic rage and into the soul of whoever it is that brings you to your knees with a  _ touch _ . He also doesn’t want to think about Uhura and Spock kissing, because  _ gross,  _ and oh, there goes another piece of his heart, this time for something that happened in the literal, far-away past. And he thinks back to the not-so-distant past, about the jail cell, when he’d thought about fighting and getting angry and talking about shit, and he notices he has been a real, true idiot for a while.

Uhura smiles at him like she knows the train of thought Jim has followed up to that point, and then she leans over the passenger seat and plants a chaste kiss on his cheek. “You’ll be good for each other,” she tells him as farewell, as she pulls away. “At least you’ll be stupid together.”

He decides to fix things, of course, little by little, because they are worth fixing and all of the painful words that will have to be exchanged for that to be achieved. So, communicating it is. The angry part of him says  _ boring, boring, boring,  _ but the lovesick- and bigger- side tells him,  _ fucking finally, man. _

Of course, he’s tired and dirty and so he takes the night to gather himself and doesn’t go knocking on spock’s door like an asshole, because this is not a romcom and he is considerate for people’s sleep cycles, if nothing else. He can be patient, unlike what some people may want to think, and so he sits in his room and doesn’t sleep and actually ends up napping until he’s late fo work for the fiftieth time this week alone, and he rushes into his morning routine and doesn’t even have the time  to think about Spock until he’s buried in car guts and then it’s much too late. Scotty notices his giddiness but doesn’t really comment on it, and around midday he gets a text from Bones that says  _ if you get beat up one more time Jim i swear to god.  _ Jim, too, hopes he doesn’t get beat up again.

He finally decides to sacrifice his lunch so he can get out of the shop earlier, and then run and get changed and run again to the café because he  _ did  _ kind of promise Uhra he was going to at least- try. Even if it’s already past nine and they close at eight-thirty, and Jim loses faith by the second when he turns on the street the familiar facade stands on and he sees all of lights off. Jim is not entirely sure he’ll be making it to tomorrow without seeing Spock with his sanity intact , though, and so he lunges on, gets off his bike in front of the door and tries to see if miracles really are possible.

He takes a deep breath and pulls on the handle, suffers a small heart attack when it doesn’t open and then he sees the calligraphy _Push_ sign on the glass, and the door is open, and Spock is there, all pretty and soft in the glowing lights, and _Jim is_ _in love._

“Uh, hi,” he says, when he meets Spock’s eyes, glowing and hopeful. 

Uhura smirks from where she’s already gathering up her stuff, and as she passes beside Spock she elbows him in the ribs, and oh so eloquently says, “Just please don’t fuck on the counters, alright?” Before she’s disappearing into the night behind Jim.

And then it’s only Jim and Spock.

Spock, who doesn’t know what to do with his hands, himself, his everything, so he starts stacking one thing and another, trying to find a way to make his already perfect handiwork even more perfect as a way of distraction. And he is trying to wait Jim out, because he figured (and Nyota told him) he has no right to talk until Jim has said his pat, but he’s had enough of awkward silences to last a lifetime and he was the one to fuck it up in the first place, so he tries- and somehow succeeds- to break the ice with the lamest, most awful, “You are injured,” still from behind the counter, holding a heavy-looking trench coat in front of him like a shield.

 

And Jim laughs at him, in the way he does whenever Spock does something dumb (adorable), and says, “Yeah, I got into a fight. Pretty awful. Shoulda seen the other guy, though.”

“I am certain that he sustained pain far greater than your own,” Spock answers, because it is natural for him to answer like that now, even after so many weeks of dumbheadedness. But Jim’s laugh, lord, his laugh is like a salve to Spock’s burning heart, everything he didn’t realise he’d missed since they kissed and things got worse before, apparently, they got better.

“Probably,” Jim replies. And then he thinks, fuck it, he has to take control of this situation lest he wants things to be fixed by the end of next week. “I’m sorry. You know, for being an idiot. And not listening to you.”

He looks away as he says it because he has never been good at apologising, especially when he knows he’s wrong, so he does startle when suddenly Spock is right  _ there,  _ in front of him, warm and safe and fragile, somehow. “Jim.”

Jim looks at him,  _ really  _ looks at him, at the furrowed brows and sharp features and broad shoulders. “Yeah?”

“You do not need to apologise. The situation was- mostly my fault,” Spock says, low and close to Jim, and they’re standing so close Jim can see  _ freckles  _ and those beautiful specks of colour within Spock’s eyes.

“So we’re- we’re okay?” Jim asks, eyes flickering down to Spock’s lips without his consent, hands gripping the hem of his shirt so tightly he’s afraid it’ll rip. 

“We are,” Spock says, and he blinks slowly, and Jim doesn’t know who leant in first but in the next second they’re kissing, soft and sweet like the first time, and they pull away to smile at each other and for Jim to mumble  _ that’s good  _ into the air between them and then their lips are pressed together again, messy and wonderful, and their hands wander over fabric and skin and hair.

“We should, uh,” Jim starts, after they’ve been at it for a while and he’s flushed and uncomfortable under his layers of clothes, “We should probably take this somewhere else.” 

Spock hums, nose against Jim’s neck, and says, “I do not live very far away, if that is what you meant.”

And so they go. They walk together, side by side, joined at the wrist and sometimes the lips, on every streetlight they pass, or just because they want to. And Jim is thinking about everything that has happened for them to get here, and about all of the wonderful things that may be coming for them, and he is happy.

After what feels like an eternity they somehow make it back to Spock’s place, a pretty little studio apartment truly not too far away from the shop, and they held onto the promise to Uhura and didn’t fuck on the shop counter but it doesn’t really extend to Spock’s front door, nor kitchen island, nor his couch, nor his bed, and honestly, with everything that’s going on it takes Jim an embarrassingly long time to realise that spock’s dick is  _ green,  _ and by the time he does notice it’s already been in his  _ mouth  _ and it is way too late to say anything without making it weird _. _

_ But.  _ Green dick. Somehow, that’s not even the weirdest thing Jim’s been through.

And yet he falls asleep against spock’s chest, anyway, decides that whatever the reason for that, he still loves Spock from here to the edge of the universe, and he’s been through so much to get him here that he really isn’t in any rush to lose him again, green dick (and skin, and pointy ears, and general weirdness) and all.

So, they sleep. With his ear pressed to Spock’s chest and Spock’s nose buried in Jim’s hair, and Jim listens to Spock breathe, wonders if he’s a vampire thanks to a surprising lack of a heartbeat, decides he  _ doesn’t care,  _ and drifts off. And all is good.

And maybe the next morning they will talk, and Spock will explain everything, and Jim will not even be surprised because he’d always known someone as  _ wonderful  _ as Spock couldn’t be human, not really, and he will kiss Spock again and again and again until he’s drunk with it and they are both late for work but not really minding it; but for now, in the present, they lie in bed, happy and sweaty and finally, finally  _ together _ .

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are seen/read, stored within the writer's heart, and never let go again. <3


End file.
